Old Haunts and Old Memories
by dust on the wind
Summary: The past isn't always as far away as it seems. For the Short Story challenge


_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. _

_Written for the Short Story Challenge. The first sentence is from "A Tale of Two Cities", by Charles Dickens._

* * *

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. But, taking everything into consideration, it is my opinion that it was worst more often than it was best."

Hans Schultz delivered his verdict in a thoughtful tone, gazing at the half-empty _Pilstulpe_ in front of him. His companion was less than impressed.

"Oh, shut up, Schultz," he growled, "nobody asked for your opinion."

Ungracious, of course; but no more than Schultz expected from his former Kommandant. Irritability with his inferiors had always been one of Colonel Klink's defining characteristics, and civilian life did not seem to have improved him in that regard. If anything, he was even more querulous now than he had been in the old days at Stalag 13. But all the same, it was ungracious, especially since Schultz had not only paid for every round of drinks, but had also shelled out for the substantial dinner Klink had just eaten. Still, allowances had to be made for a man to whom the years had so obviously not been kind; and anyway, it hadn't cost that much. Just as it had been during the war, the Hofbrau was the place to go for a good cheap meal. So Schultz let it go, and finished his beer.

"Another _Schnaps_, _Herr Kommandant_?" he asked.

"You can't call me Kommandant any more," grumbled Klink. "That's in the past. We're all on the same level now."

"I very much doubt it," muttered Schultz under his breath, as he surreptitiously took note of the changes which the last ten years had wrought. The naked dome of Klink's head gleamed pink in the electric light, just as it had in the old days, but the surrounding fringe of hair had faded to a whiteness which looked somehow artificial, as if it had been glued on. The once-treasured monocle was gone, replaced by a more conventional pair of glasses with cheap, clumsy plastic frames. His facial features had shrunk, apart from the nose which was even longer and more beak-like than Schultz remembered; his spine had developed a pronounced curve, drawing his neck down between his shoulders. He looked more like a vulture than ever, albeit one with a bad case of parasitic moult.

He peered around the crowded tavern. "I see this place hasn't improved," he said petulantly. "Why couldn't we go somewhere else? What about the Hauserhof?"

"The Hauserhof closed down after the war," replied Schultz. "I already told you, _Herr Kommandant._ Do you want another _Schnaps_, or not?"

This time, Klink let the honorific pass. "Well, then...just a small one," he muttered.

Schultz gestured to the waiter. "Another _Schnaps_, and another beer."

For a minute or so, after the waiter had brought their drinks, the two men sat in silence. They had never really found common conversational ground, even in the old days, when Klink had been nominally in charge of Stalag 13 and Schultz, for want of better, had been his right-hand man. Neither of them had given the other more than a passing thought in the years that had come and gone since their last encounter. Once they'd exchanged a few reminiscences over the old days, they'd run out of things to talk about.

It was only by chance that they had even come across each other again. Schultz, in Hammelburg on business, had decided on impulse to stay for a couple of days, revisiting old haunts and old memories. Some men might have found this a depressing experience, but there had always been a touch of the Pollyanna spirit hidden inside Schultz's substantial mass, and he revelled in this unplanned paddle along the shores of nostalgia. Even the sight of his erstwhile commanding officer in the street, approaching through the autumn dusk, had at first been a source of pleasure.

Now, though, Schultz had just about had enough. One more drink, and then he would make an excuse, head back to his hotel, and hopefully never see Kommandant Big Shot again. The thought gave him a brief sense of satisfaction, followed by a surge of guilt; after all, they had been comrades in arms, after a fashion.

"So, _Herr Kommandant_, what have you been doing with yourself since..." He broke off, realising how tactless that question was; Klink had spent the first two years of the Allied occupation in a prison cell, and if the shabby state of his overcoat was anything to go by, he'd seen some lean times since then.

Klink, however, drew himself up. "Oh, you know. A man of my experience is always in demand. I was just saying so the other day to Otto von Krubner."

"Otto von Krubner? The munitions maker? But, _Herr Kommandant_, von Krubner was killed in the war," said Schultz, his eyes opening wide with perplexity. "It happened right in front of you, at Stalag 13. His car was blown up."

"Did I say von Krubner?" Klink's high, narrow forehead folded in on itself. "I meant to say...I meant...it must have been someone else."

He fell silent again, pondering. "Fritz Bowman," he said at last. "I. G. Bowman Industries. It must have been him."

"Did Herr Bowman come back from South America, then?" asked Schultz, more bewildered than ever.

"South America? Don't be ridiculous, Schultz." Klink smirked, with a brief flicker of the smug pomposity which Schultz remembered all too well. "What would a man like Herr Bowman be doing in South America? A loyal German, a successful industrialist - he's just the sort of man this country needs. And he has the Führer's full confidence, as well."

"Oh, well, a man who has the Führer's...I beg your pardon, Kommandant, did you say...?"

But Klink's revival was already fading. He slumped back into the apathy of old age, his eyes on the glass of brandy held between his arthritic fingers. "I sometimes had some very good _Schnaps_, back at Stalag 13," he said. "You can't get the good stuff any more, Schultz." And Schultz was left feeling shaken and disoriented, as if he'd missed a step whilst coming downstairs.

To cover his own discomposure, he hurriedly resumed the conversation. "Well, as you know, _Herr Kommandant_, before the war I was in the toymaking industry. So as soon as I left the army, that's what I started doing again. Business was slow at first, but..."

"You make toys?" said Klink, looking at him with sudden interest.

"I make toys," replied Schultz, beaming with self-importance. "I have my headquarters in Stuttgart. But we just opened a new factory here in Hammelburg. That's why I came here, to inspect the new works."

"Well...well, I'm pleased for you, Schultz. You know, I've always thought you had executive potential. I suppose..." A spark of calculation had kindled in the pale blue of Klink's eyes. "I suppose when you're in a business of that kind, you have to have managers you can trust, who know how to supervise the workers, and oversee the accounts, and so forth."

"Oh, of course, that goes without saying." Schultz nodded, and picked up his beer.

"You know, Schultz, I might be persuaded to consider a job offer," Klink went on.

"From who?" mumbled Schultz, from behind the glass.

"From you, Schultz," replied Klink, with a bright smile, which wavered briefly at the splutter from across the table, then reasserted itself with the tenacity of desperation. "After all," he continued, "I have just the right kind of experience. Running a toy factory can't be that different to running a prison camp. It's probably easier, in fact. I don't imagine the teddy bears are digging escape tunnels." He finished on a nervous titter, which Schultz echoed faintly.

"_Herr Kommandant_," he mumbled, "while nothing could give me more pleasure, I have to say that at the present time..."

"Oh, of course I understand, Schultz. You can't do anything until after the war," said Klink, lowering his voice in a confidential manner. "But when the time comes, I hope you won't forget your old comrade."

For a second time, Schultz was thrown off balance. "But...but, _Herr Kommandant_," he stammered, "the war finished a long time ago."

Klink peered at him, momentarily nonplussed; then he hunched his shoulders and retreated into peevishness. "I know that. Of course the war's over. I know all about that."

The conversation lapsed again. Klink huddled over his _Schnaps_, the moroseness of his expression gradually erasing itself as his facial muscles relaxed and the skin sagged; while Schultz sat in silence, mulling things over, until he reached a conclusion which made his heart sink till it seemed about to hit the floor.

Once again, he broke into hasty speech to hide his unease. "You didn't tell me yet, _Herr Kommandant_. What brought you to Hammelburg?"

"Huh?" Klink's gaze turned to him, vague and indifferent.

"I asked why you came to Hammelburg," said Schultz. "You're just here on a visit, right?" His eyes added the entreaty that he couldn't articulate, the wordless plea for a sensible, rational answer to dispel his misgivings.

"Of course it's just a visit, Schultz," replied Klink. "What else would I be doing in Hammelburg?" He picked up his glass. "In fact, I should be on my way home. Maybe just one more _Schnaps_..."

"And where would home be?" persisted Schultz.

"Düsseldorf. You know that, Schultz, I must have told you a dozen times," said Klink, his voice descending into petulance. Schultz relaxed. He'd obviously misheard; the Kommandant wasn't losing his mind after all.

"Well, _Herr Kommandant_," he burbled, "it will be my pleasure to see you off on the train."

"The train...? Why would I take the train?" Klink drew himself up. "There's no train, Schultz. Not to Stalag 13." He gave a bright, condescending smile. "You know, Schultz, I'm beginning to think your memory is going."

"_Jawohl, Herr Kommandant_." Schultz's shoulders fell, as he gazed at the old man opposite him. For a few moments, he wavered; opened his mouth to tell Klink that Stalag 13 was long gone, the buildings torn down, the compound reclaimed by the surrounding forest. But he couldn't do it; pity weighed down on his tongue, and held it still, until at last he found something else to say. "If...if I might suggest it, _Herr Kommandant_...why don't you stay in town tonight? I can get you a room at the Hotel Hammelburg. It's not so nice as the Hauserhof was, but it's very comfortable."

"But what about Stalag 13?" Klink stared at him, a searching, anxious stare. "I'm supposed to be...I have to...I'm the Kommandant, Schultz."

"Don't worry about Stalag 13, _Herr Kommandant_," replied Schultz. His voice caught a little; he wasn't sure why, because nowhere in his entire body could he find the smallest grain of affection for his former commanding officer. But there was compassion, at least, for an old man who clung so desperately to the past as his foothold in an uncertain present slipped away beneath him; and that compassion formed a knot in his chest which could only be relieved in one way.

"Don't worry about it," he said again. "You deserve a night off, _Herr Kommandant_. Stalag 13 can manage without you for just one night. And tomorrow I will see you get home safe."

Klink nodded slowly. "A night off. Yes, I think you're right, Schultz. I could use a rest from...from..." His voice trailed off, as if he had suddenly found himself on an unexpected pathway; and Schultz read the look in his eyes, and responded, not with his head, but with his heart.

"It's all right, _Herr Kommandant_," he said. "You don't have to worry about a thing. Sergeant Schultz is here, just like old times, ready to help."

* * *

_Notes: Otto von Krubner appeared (and was blown up) in "Guess Who Came To Dinner" (Season 4). Fritz Bowman was in "Oil for the Lamps of Hogan" (Season 1). The spelling of both names is as shown in the end credits._

_Pilstulpe: a tall, tapering beer glass, generally used for Pilsner._


End file.
